


The patterns moonlight makes

by summerstorm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't know why I have to be here," Lydia says, the sharpness in her tone turning what begins as a whisper into something that is definitely not.</p>
<p>Allison glances back long enough to say, "You're the one who insisted on having a backup plan."</p>
<p>"Contingency plan," Lydia grumbles, and the ground crunches loudly under her feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The patterns moonlight makes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mosca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/gifts).



> For [femslash12](http:/femslash12.dreamwidth.org). Thank you to annemari for reading this over! Title comes from a Robert Hass poem.

The dry leaves on the ground keep crackling under Lydia's ankle boots. It's incredibly hard to ignore it. Allison does because she's had a few months of practice and there's no point in being inconspicuous right now. She'd probably complain if they were hunting down a werewolf, but they don't come across many of those these days—since the alpha pack fiasco, Scott and Derek have been pretty diligent about keeping trespassers out of their territory—and anyway, it could be worse. Lydia could be wearing high heels. That would slow them both down.

"I don't know why I have to be here," Lydia says, the sharpness in her tone turning what begins as a whisper into something that is definitely not.

Allison glances back long enough to say, "You're the one who insisted on having a backup plan."

"Contingency plan," Lydia grumbles, and the ground crunches loudly under her feet. Allison ducks under a branch and stops for a moment, mapping out their progress and position. Lydia slows down behind her; Allison can tell before her footsteps become quieter. "When was the last time you used a contingency plan?" Lydia asks. She knows the answer as well as Allison does—neither of them wants to relive that story, but it's been a while—so she doesn't wait for an answer before barreling on, "What if he traps _both_ of us? Because I gotta say, the last time I was trapped in my own body, your behavior didn't inspire much confidence."

"No, it didn't," Allison says quickly. It took a while for them to get around _that_ mess, a while for Lydia to open up about it, but this is how they deal with it now: Lydia copes with it by bringing it up whenever she's scared—not that she'd ever admit it—and Allison does what she can to acknowledge it in the same matter-of-fact way. Encouraging Lydia to talk about it further doesn't do any good. Allison knows that from experience. "And that's not going to happen. Erica said she did some damage before she got out."

"Erica says a lot of things," Lydia points out.

Allison snorts. "Yeah, well, I don't think she'd send us into a death trap." She would hardly say she _trusts_ Erica, but there's no way Erica doesn't want, above all grudges, for this hunt to go well. Allison saw her more than three hours after she got away and—well, the fact that Erica can't go after this guy herself says more than enough about how weak she felt. If it had been Allison, the only thought in her mind would have been destroying him.

That's one thing she and Erica have in common.

Lydia's eyebrows are raised when Allison looks back. "Do not say it's because she likes me." Allison wasn't going to say it, but it's true. It's a begrudging sort of respect, but it comes from a more sympathetic place than Erica's respect for Allison does. "She's scared of you," Lydia finishes.

Allison shakes her head and says, "We're close enough to be noticed now. Listen."

"That's what got us into this mess in the first place," Lydia remarks, but just rolls her eyes when Allison makes a soft shushing sound. They're standing a few yards from the nook of trees by the lakeshore where Erica says she first felt the song call out to her, call her body into following it. Allison's had her share of unfortunate encounters with grizzly creatures, but nothing spooks her like the thought of not being able to control her own body, and it's not an easy thing to understand, either, that someone could have that kind of power, be born with it and never question it, never fight against it. "Maybe I should have the crossbow," Lydia suggests, and Allison has to blink twice before Lydia's face comes into focus.

"What?"

"The crossbow. It makes you look pretty questionable." When Allison frowns, Lydia widens her eyes and tilts her head forward in that way that means _you're smart enough to get this, work with me here_. "You know, for prey."

"Oh," Allison says. The wind's beginning to carry a melody with it, and everything in her tells her to block it out, but unless she gives in, they have no chance of getting this guy. As long as she stays aware, she'll be fine. "He roped a werewolf into the lake, I don't think a few human weapons will put him off." She blinks again, then reaches down to retrieve a small gun from the holder on her calf. She holds it out to Lydia. "You should have a backup."

Lydia doesn't look particularly thrilled, but she takes it. Allison has every intention of making both this gun and the shotgun Lydia was already carrying superfluous, but it never hurts to be prepared, and Lydia's aim is better at close range.

Allison taps her fingers on her hip along with the sweet slow rhythm of the song, and Lydia takes that as her cue to lift the furry white noise-cancelling earmuffs around her neck to her ears. Lydia looks at some undefined point for a few seconds and then nods to let Allison know she's good.

The music grows louder as Allison sets out toward the lake on her own, Lydia's footsteps no longer crowding her hearing. It's not entirely something Allison would call a song; much of it is a heightened sense of nature, real whistles of wind blown and shaped into a tune, waterfall sounds interspersed through muffled words that speak of home, family, comfort. Allison doesn't remember a waterfall nearby, but it feels like it's close, just a short walk away. The trees clear away as the lake comes into view, soft sand lapped wet at the shore, the clean water flowing quietly as though it's dancing to welcome the song, to welcome her.

She closes her eyes. She's still aware. Her crossbow's on her back. She can pull it any time, any time, as soon as her target emerges.

The song shifts into a quick crescendo and her shoulders rise toward her ears, back arching and arms stretching to her sides. She twirls, she thinks. The ground makes circles around her feet. A hand reaches for her.

_A hand_.

She opens her eyes again, stepping closer to shore. Everything feels a little fuzzy. Her body is light, like the weight of the world is gone, like she's not carrying anything anymore—the guilt, the mission, the weapons. She's relieved to be rid of the burden, relieved to be heading into the starlit sheen of the lake, the boy surfacing just feet away from the shore, bidding her to come closer.

Somebody says her name. His lips don't move, but somebody's saying her name. Something cold envelops her toes, her ankles, but it doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel like something she should ward off.

She looks down, and there are hands on her waist. They're coated in a film of surreality. They're just hands, and the water waves softly along her knees, and when she looks up the boy is close enough to touch, if only she takes one more step. If only she jumps in with her whole being, he'll catch her. He'll hold her. It will be easy enough, when she's light like this.

And then there's a bang, and another, and red spreads like paint over his neck, his bare chest. Allison steps forward, her legs sliding into the lake like it's her home, like it's calling her to save him. The sounds have stopped, but the pull is strong. The pull feels righter now, heady with purpose. She has something to do. She has to get to him. She has to get around the silhouette standing in her way, some vestige of a life she doesn't remember any reason to hold onto—

"Allison," she hears again, a strangled sound, and then hands on her neck, lips on her own, lids closing—

_Oh my god_ , she tries to say, but she only mouths it, taking a deep breath to let reality back in. Lydia's hands are cradling her face, warm and insistent, and Allison's own hands fly to keep them there. She's fine. She's fine, her eyes are open, she's standing in the nook of trees by the lake where Erica got taken and the water is muddy with blood. Sirens bleed, too, apparently, and her crossbow's just where she put it, snug against her back. She squeezes Lydia's hands and laughs, sheer relief, and a little bit of amusement that this is what got Lydia to make a move. If it is a move, and Allison dearly hopes it is, because she's been waiting a while for this, waiting for Lydia to decide the time is right and she's ready for it.

Allison grins, her own feelings at contrast with Lydia's wide eyes, the flat set of her mouth, the worry on her face. She leans in and kisses Lydia again, moving her hands to Lydia's waist, under Lydia's jacket and encountering the shotgun Lydia picked out of the garage. Allison wraps her fingers around it so she can thumb at the thinner side strap of Lydia's dress, where she can feel the warmth of her skin seeping through.

Lydia makes a high-pitched noise and her mouth falls open, a sigh slipping into Allison's next inhale. Then, as quick as she pressed close, she takes a step back.

There's a loud splash of water, and a few more as Lydia steps around Allison and out of the lake she was knee-deep in. That Allison is still knee-deep in. She turns around and gets herself to dry land, too. Her jeans are soggy and heavy and gross from the knee down, and her combat boots haven't fared much better, but then that's why she wears them to these things. They're sturdy and reliable and can take a thorough clean-up.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Lydia says, pacing and stopping and pacing and stopping again, this time for good. She frowns and shakes her head like she's trying to clear it, and when she speaks again, she's looking at a tree several feet left of Allison and it sounds like she's on a completely different subject. "That was so not what I wanted our first kiss to be like."

Allison laughs, surprised and grateful that's what's bothering Lydia. She bends to get a string of plant off her knee and says, "It's okay, you pulled me back. I'm glad you did it."

Lydia's worrying her bottom lip, her leg jittery and her eyes stuck staring at Allison in a way Allison chalks up to shock. So she starts to trudge up to the path they followed, and offers Lydia a hand Lydia deliberately shakes her head _no_ at, a proud sort of determination Allison's grown really fond of. Allison doesn't think anything of it. "Come on," she says. "Let's get out of here."

*

They head back to Allison's house after checking on Erica and sending Isaac and Boyd out on clean-up duty, because, as Lydia puts it, just because they're dealing with hetenormative douchebags, that doesn't mean the boys shouldn't pull their weight in some way. Getting rid of threats helps everybody.

Lydia's quiet in the car, choosing to skim a book she tossed in the backseat when Allison picked her up instead of going over the night in search of moments that indicate their plan or execution needs improvement. It's unusual for Lydia to be quiet after a hunt to begin with, but the fact that they had to resort to the contingency plan this time makes the silence unsettling. Lydia should be talking about how they'll fix what went wrong next time, and how maybe Allison should get over herself and take Scott or Derek as backup. God knows they've offered enough times.

After taking the firearms to the basement, they climb the stairs back to the house and Allison says, "You could keep the backup handgun. You were good with it."

Lydia huffs out a laugh. "No, thanks. Having one gun in my bedside drawer is freaky enough." Looking askance, she adds, "Not to mention illegal."

Allison shrugs. "You could get a permit."

" _If_ I were eighteen," Lydia points out. She's made Allison's age into an affectionate in-joke; between her and Scott, Allison is almost okay with it now. And being eighteen does come in handy sometimes. "And that would only be good for the shotgun. And anyway, I should go."

"I thought you were sleeping over," Allison says with a frown.

"Yeah, I'm gonna get my bag," Lydia says, and heads upstairs while Allison's still wrapping her head around what's happening. She doesn't remember Lydia mentioning that she'd decided to go home tonight, or why, and Lydia's usually pretty straightforward. Allison sprints up after Lydia, who's tossed her overnight bag over her shoulder and stops walking halfway to the door when she sees Allison there.

"I didn't—" Allison begins, tilting her head in confusion. "Why are you leaving?"

Lydia directs her nonjudgmental frown at her, the one that manages to wonder why Allison's not getting something without blaming her for it. "I thought it would be awkward. You know. After I kissed you."

"But I kissed you back."

"Technically you didn't," Lydia says, brightening up now that she's in let's-reason-this-out territory, a finger pointing away from her body. "You kissed me, period. After I did. Because you were under this influence of—whatever that thing was. So you should—process that. Without me." She begins walking towards the door again, but stops when Allison shakes her head.

"Wait," Allison says, "I wasn't under the influence of anything. You pulled me back from that. I didn't want you to think I didn't want you. I just wanted you to be ready before I said anything."

Lydia crosses her arms over her stomach and deadpans, "That doesn't make any sense."

Allison smiles, shoulders rising apologetically. "When I kissed you, I wasn't hanging on to the song. I was trying to say, 'me too.'"

Lydia's brow furrows. "Are you sure whatever the siren was making you feel for him didn't transfer to me after I kissed you? Are you okay? Are you dizzy? Maybe we should take you to a hospital—"

"I'm fine. And you're the one who did all the research," Allison points out.

"Actually, Stiles did most of the research," Lydia says with the tone that suggests she only trusts his work begrudgingly, but there's a hint of a smile pushing at the corner of her lips, and her shoulders loosen enough for her bag to drop to her elbow and hit the floor. "But there's a wide consensus that the spell drives you to the water. It isn't necessarily romantic."

"There, see?" Allison leans against the door frame, and watches as Lydia presses her lips together and lets the strap of her bag slide out of her hand.

"Okay," Lydia says quietly. "I'll stay." She takes a step toward Allison, and Allison's body straightens up in anticipation. "You should probably close the door," Lydia adds, but she reaches for the handle herself, and then she's got Allison crowded against the door, her right hand hovering by Allison's hip before tentatively touching her, thumb curling into the pocket of Allison's jeans.

"Good idea," Allison whispers. She doesn't wait for Lydia's answering grin before cradling her jaw and tilting her face up for a kiss—maybe their second, or third, or even first; doesn't matter when Allison's confident it's only one of the many that will follow.


End file.
